The nurse opens the door and gestures me to go inside. Inside is a little room the size of a closet with chairs strewn about. On the farthest wall there is another door. This one has no window and looks much more daunting than the last.
"Just sit here and the doctor will come out when he is ready for you," the nurse tells me. She points to one of the chairs, then closes the door. Other than my shoe voyage, this is the first time I have been alone since I got here. I look around the room and try to make acquaintances with it. Something tells me that I will be seeing these walls for a very long time. Who knows how long I will be here.
A bit of thread sticks out from the stitching on my chair. I pull at it nervously. My mother always told me that if I pull threads then the whole stitch will come apart. I have always wanted to test out this for myself. I feel like it would be so satisfying to watch an entire project be ripped apart, literally by the seams, just by pulling a single thread that was out of place.
The door creaks and I am pulled from my thoughts. I jump and my hand pulls the thread farther. I look up. I feel guilty for ruining it more. The doctor chuckles. His face is one of someone who needs more sleep. He has thick purple coloring under his eyes. Although he appears to be around thirty, he has wrinkles of a 60 year old. With his laugh comes raspy vocal cords and an exacerbated grin. I honestly feel sympathy for him. I can't imagine what he goes through day in and day out.
"Come talk with me, Ana." He tells me.
He opens the door to his office wide and walks back into the room. It is only slightly bigger than the closet outside but is still barely enough room for someone to properly utilize the space. The walls are a forest green with touch of shit color to them. The ceiling has a moldy look to it but it matches the wall color, so I can't complain. One thing does appeal to me: the giant couch he has sprawled across the far wall. Its plump cushions look so inviting. I walk over to it and sit down. I melt into the soft cotton. I am still anxious but the comfort does help a bit. My eyes continue to soar across the room. There is so many stimulants. I feel like it was decorated this way intentionally. Once again, posters of smiling families cake the walls. He sees me looking and smirks. I assume they are frequently stared at.
"Those are mandatory from the hospital board," he says.
The groups of people look so relaxed. A couple walks hand in hand in a sunflower field with the perfect lens flare on their backs. I wish life was that happy. I know they put them there as inspiration but honestly, it makes me more depressed. I see what I can never truly achieve. I know that I will never achieve it. Especially if I never find out why I am here. I still don't understand why I wound up here or what I did to warrant this admittance. I hold my hands in my lap and look at the doctor. He better answer some of my questions.
"They told you that you were in a mental health facility I assume?" He asks.
"Yes," I say, "but I don't know why."
My words come off much harsher than I intend. I am confused and annoyed but I don't usually express that to people.
"Well," The doctor's voice is much cooler than mine, "you attempted to kill yourself."
Although this should shock me, I don't doubt it for a second. The voice have convinced me to try before.
"Ok." I say. The doctor is not sure about my response. Most people probably react more extremely to the news. My react however is not candidly nonchalant.
"How?" I ask. Hopefully I was creative.
"You tried to hang yourself." He seems slightly apprehensive to tell me. Perhaps he takes me as a repeat offender. He isn't necessarily wrong. If I was just a tad more sociopathic, I would make a mental note that hanging doesn't work for me.
I slowly nod my head. I know that this is going to hit me later. I am more inclined to offset stress for a moment when I am alone. I hate showing people weakness unless I am in a deep depression. Even then, I am hardly in charge of my body.
"So how long am I going to be here?" I ask. It's not like I have a place to go other than Tabitha's but preferably, I'd rather be at her house than in a mental hospital. No matter how appealing a mental ward sounds to some. The doctor looks down at his feet. I know this is a bad sign.
"We are putting you on a 72 hour hold." The doctor sighs, "however, after that you are able to check yourself out but I suggest you stay at least a week."
"So I have to stay for 3 days but I can leave after that?" I clarify, "Can I have visitors?"
"At certain points in the day, you can have people come see you," Dr. Simmons reassures.
"So the suicide is the only reason I am here?"
"Well, we also think you might have underlying problems."
I am confused. I don't know what he is referring to. I know I'm crazy but I didn't think any of the issues were asylum worthy.
"You had a hallucination while they were trying to get here." He tells me.
"Hallucination?" These words are confusing me more.
"Yes, you saw something that wasn't there." He says, "It could have been the stress of the attempt but we need to make sure you don't frequently do that."
I nod my head. I think of all of the times that I have talked to people who have passed. I assumed that I could just talk to spirits but maybe they weren't there? I have always taken pride in my introspectiveness but now I am at a loss for words. Am I more fucked up than I originally thought?
Dr. Simmons picks up a clipboard and a pen. He looks me straight in the eye. Temporarily, I feel like a child.
"Do you hear voices?" He asks. He is so straightforward that it makes me wonder how easy it would be to just lie to him. He has no way to crawl into my brain and see if I am lying or not. It makes me guess that so many people have done that to their doctors. I realize how distracted I have become and push myself into reality yet again.
"Huh?" I ask. I wish I hadn't gotten so distracted.
Dr. Simmons scrawls something on his clipboard and reiterates himself.
"Do you hear voices?"
"I hear thoughts," I say, "if that's what you mean."
I know if I admit to the voices that I will be placed here for much longer than I'd like. But another part of me wants to tell him. Maybe he could actually help me. I could get medications that would stop the voices. Maybe?
"Are the thoughts your own or do you hear someone else's voice talking to you?"
"Someone else." I say it slowly. I know this is where he realizes how crazy I am. There is now way out now. Down the rabbit hole we go.
"Do you know who it is?"
Why are you talking about us?
Stop telling him.
"Uh, no," I stammer. It is harder to concentrate when the voices are interrupting.
Dr. Simmons scrawls yet again.
"Are they talking now?"
NO.
"Y-yes…" My voice gets less sure as I continue on.
Stop!
"What are they saying now?"
Don't tell him!
"They are telling me to not tell you," I say. I feel so uncomfortable in this situation. I hate talking about it. I don't want to anger the voice or they will get louder. I don't know what to do. If I don't tell him, I have no way of getting help. If I tell him, the voices get stronger. I have to think in the long run.
"Why are they saying that?"
"Because if I tell you, they know that I will get rid of them," I say quickly. If I don't get it out then they will try to convince otherwise still.
"Do you tell anyone about them?" The doctor asks, his pen in hand, "like your boyfriend or parents?"
"Uh, I told my boyfriend." If he is even my boyfriend anymore.
"And your parents?"
"My father wouldn't care…" I say sadly. I wish he would.
"And your mother?"
My mother. I assume she had the same problem as me. My father did say that it ran in the family. Maybe my grandmother did too. Maybe, if I have this baby, they will too. I don't want to put the curse on them. My mother most likely didn't want the same for me. Then why did she kill herself?